Vote With Your Ass!

Some people have asked me why I write this blog.  I want to explain. 

I write this blog for the same reason that I have done amateur stand-up for much of my adult life.  I write this blog for the same reason that I have gotten up early every morning to write my thoughts and ideas for years.  I write this blog for the same reason I have quietly studied illustrating for the past several years.  I write this blog for the same reason that I have dabbled in Flash and Maya 3D software to explore their usefulness in making good comics.  In short, I write this blog for the very same reason I breathe.  Because I am insane.

This brings us to an important point.  In addition to my other whorish behaviors that are far too numerous to list, I am an attention whore.

I think that all people who write blogs are attention whores.  All writers are attention whores.  All artists and actors and newscasters and weathermen and talk-show hosts and poets: attention whores.  Okay, maybe not the poets.  They are something else.

Some bloggers also have delusional ideas that they will make a shitload of money off their website.  Now, I know that a few people who write very popular blogs make money with their blogs.  According to some sources, Dooce generates $40,000 a month.  $40,000!  A month!  And dooce.com fucking sucks ass!  That is one expensive goddamn rim job.  You’re pissed because Elliot Spitzer got laid for $5,000 when Dooce’s Heather Armstrong is getting forty grand a month serving up her kid to baby junkies?

But I digress.  This blog, and just about every other blog out there, will never turn a real profit.  Even if they do generate a profit, they will never get anywhere near that Dooce level of cash.  Why?  Well, maybe because we suck even more than Dooce.  Or maybe because we lack the skills required to profitably whore ourselves and our children for more than mere attention.  Whatever.

Anyway, I want to whore myself to all of you and do whatever it takes to bring people to this blog, but I’m also lazy and disinterested.  Mostly lazy. 

But did I mention that I also want your money?  Well, yes, I want your money.  All of it.  I am willing to kill you to get your money, but wouldn’t it be more pleasant for everyone concerned if you just sent it to me?  Of course it would.

So, I have been looking into what it takes to get your money without killing you. 

Step one, no matter what, is to attract more readers.  I need to attract readers so that I can have you give me all your money, or so that I can kill you and steal all your money.  Just so you understand how this works, I am also working on a plan that might have you all commit suicide, and then I somehow get your money.  I haven’t worked out all the kinks in that plan yet, though.

Anyway, I have read a lot of shit on the internet about attracting more readers, but it all takes too much work.  For instance, one piece of advice is that I should write things that you want to read.  What kind of advice is that?  If you people don’t want to read about the things that I like to write about, then fuck you!  I want to write about feet with pussies in the soles, and dickmail, and fucking cars.  If that’s not what you feel like reading about, what the fuck is wrong with you?  Who are you people?

If you don’t think this is awesome, there is nothing I can do for you.

Now, a friend told me that I should make up a banner ad for MySpace and other social networking sites.  So, with a little help, I did.

Making that banner ad took a few days but it was a ton of fucking fun.  If you want to put my banner ad on your website to help get this whole thing going, email me and I will send you the secret code.  In exchange, I don’t mind helping you to make a similar banner ad for your website, but you will need to supply me with a naked chick.

That’s it for marketing the site.  I’m done.  I don’t have time for this bullshit.

As far as making money from all of you, people have a lot of ideas about that.  First there are ads.  You will notice that I have two underutilized highly profitable sidebars to the right.  Make me an offer.

Some people instead ask readers to donate money to the website.  What the fuck is that all about?  What am I, the March of Fucking Dimes?  I ain’t no stinking charity. 

Another idea is that, instead of asking you to donate cash, I should ask you to buy me something, like a beer or a cup of coffee.  Here is one of these coffee appeals that I stole from another website.

That’s really just asking a different way for you to donate, except that I would ask you to donate two bucks.  But you know what?  I can buy my own fucking coffee.  I mean, if I could get a million people to come to this site and buy me a cup a coffee, I would get $2 million, and that’s sweet enough.  But what are the fucking chances?

Instead of the stupid coffee thing, I have considered this:

Let me know whether you would donate to buy me a whore.  That would work for me.  If so, I will put up a permanent ad.  A very nasty whore is going to cost a fucking bundle, but I would give you all the disgusting details.

The problem is that people don’t want to buy someone else anything.  People don’t mind buying themselves something, but why the fuck would you buy anything for me?  So I need to sell something that you want.

Well, being the creative, inventive dude that I am, I came upon what I think is the perfect plan.  This is my brilliant invention number two, and it just so happens that it has a lot to do with number two.

It occurred to me that a lot of you buy buttplugs, as demonstrated by the Pigtail and Baby Jesus buttplugs about which I have already written.  The question was, how could I capitalize on the fact that you like to stick things up your ass while also being topical?  My answer: electoral buttplugs!

These buttplugs speak for themselves.  My work here is done.  Now send me your money.

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Poetry Licks Ass

April is National Poetry Month.  Yes, you read that right.  Since it is the end of April now, I guess this post is a little late.  But who cares, because poetry sucks fucking ass.

Really, poetry bites. 

I don’t know why poetry sucks so bad.  I mean, I like music, and music is pretty much poetry that somebody sings.  So why is it that, when somebody doesn’t sing poetry, it sucks so much? 

Years ago, poetry was so popular in America that poets you have never even heard of got incredibly rich.  Like Walt Mason, known as “Uncle Walt,” of Emporia, Kansas, was one of the richest writers in the world around World War I.  He wrote poetry for newspapers.  And James Whitcomb Riley of Greenfield, Indiana, who was also one of the wealthiest writers of his time.  Get this: he made most of his money by reciting his poetry in theatres and halls for the cost of admission.  Can you fucking believe it?  What the fuck was wrong with people in those days?

Yet, why did I pay ten bucks for this?

He drinks a whisky drink.
He drinks a vodka drink.
He drinks a lager drink.
He drinks a cider drink.
He sings the songs that remind him of the good times.
He sings the songs that remind him of the better times.
Don’t cry for me next door neighbor….
  — Chumbawumba from Tubthumping

See.  If you just read that without the music, it sucks ass.

I try to be a creative kind of dude.  I write, I draw, I invent new menstrual devices.  But I have never been into poetry.  It takes a lot for me to like a poem.

For instance, here is one of my favorite poems.

This poem only works for me if I imagine that, after he wrote this poem, William H. Mearns was found murdered under mysterious circumstances.

Since poetry eats shit, it is hard for me to get into it.  But I have tried for a few weeks to come up with a good poem, because it is National Poetry Month.  Here is the best I could do.

That’s all I’ve got for you after weeks of trying.

See what I mean?  Poetry is total fucking smegma.

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Holy Zombies

I know that, at the end of my last post, I said I would soon write about the difference between porno and real life, and I will get around to that in a post or two, but first I want to clear something up. 

Some people were insulted by my last post about chick flicks and dick flicks for a number of reasons.  I did not mean to insult particular movies, however contrived, formulaic, or overhyped those movies might be.  Nor did I intend to insult the people who enjoy those movies, however idiotically sheep-like and mindlessly stereotypical those people’s reactions to those contrived, formulaic, overhyped movies might be.

I don’t mean to insult anyone.  I just want to make that clear right now.  I love movies.  And I don’t mean only porno movies, although I do love porno.  I mean mainstream movies.  I am especially fond of horror movies and, in fact, I have probably seen every zombie movie ever made, including the many very hot porno zombie movies, like 28 Lays Later and Night of Giving Head.

That is why I have decided to devote this blog entry to an uncontroversial topic that will showcase my knowledge of popular culture while also demonstrating to you, my loyal readers, that I mean to insult no one: Jesus was a zombie.

Now, this is pretty straightforward.  If you look up the definition for zombie in the dictionary, it says, “a dead body that has been brought back to life by a supernatural force.”  Done and done.  That’s pretty clear, huh?  Plainly, Jesus is, by definition, a zombie.  According to Christians, Jesus died and then rose three days later.  Once you have been dead, the only thing you can later be is undead.

But I don’t mean to get all Christian on you.  Here is what I am getting at: when Christians watch zombie movies, why don’t they root for the Zombies?  What would Jesus do?

In some George Romero zombie movies, he uses this line: “When there’s no more room in hell, the dead shall walk to earth.”  No, George.  Sorry.  You’re wrong.  When there’s no more room in heaven, the dead shall walk to earth.

See, everybody should agree that a world filled with zombies is pretty much the very idea of Christian paradise.  And it’s not like Jesus didn’t start the whole, “eat my body and drink my blood,” thing.  Does he have to knock you over the head with his zombie message for you to get it?

Look at the world around you and maybe you see sin, right?  Fornication?  Death?  Prejudice?  War? 

Think of your best idea of heaven.  It is a world where you wind up after you are dead, but without any of the sin.  You don’t even think any bad thoughts in heaven.  You just sort of mill around doing whatever.  Sounds heavenly, doesn’t it?

Now watch your favorite zombie movie.  If zombies took over the world — after they killed all the people (a.k.a. sinners) — there would be no war, no death, no jealousy, no coveting, no prejudice.  Zombies are never racist, sexist, or homophobes.  You will never see anything like this in a zombie movie.

Zombies feel no pain.  They have no diseases.  They don’t recognize handicaps.  They never argue or bitch or whine.  They only do what God intelligently designed them to do: eat sinners.  And eating a sinner is a transformative process.  After the sinner dies, he turns into a zombie — a perfect, sinless human being — completing the heavenly circle. 

Zombies in most movies don’t even bother with animals.  Animals are free to roam and play.  Zombies don’t eat apples, either.  How much does this sounds like Eden to you?

After Zombies had eradicated all non-zombies, the world would return to a state of nature.  People would all be zombies.  And the world would be a perfect, Christian paradise.  Eden on earth.

So, the next time you see a zombie flick, if you call yourself a Christian, cheer for the zombies.  Ask yourself: what would Jesus, king of the zombies, do?

That’s all I have to say about that.  More porn and cake to come.

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Suckage Part 1

I read a couple of months ago that 11% of women and 5% of men are on antidepressants in this country.  Eleven percent of women!  That means that, when you walk into a bar, you have a one-in-ten chance of bringing home someone who is depressed even before the whole hump & dump thing.

According to the article, most of these people are not actually ill with depression.  They do not have clinical depression, which is the only thing antidepressants have been approved to treat.  That is a good thing because clinical depression is supposed to feel something like being the pope’s hard-on.  Forever.

No, the vast majority of people who take antidepressants take them because they are depressed the way that everybody gets depressed sometimes.  You know, like because Natalie Portman will probably never star in even one porno movie or because statutory rape laws have killed the passion you once had for a career in teaching high school.  Without really using my imagination, I have a hard time seeing any upside to bringing somebody who is already depressed home with you from a club or a bar.

So why the fuck is everyone so gaddamn depressed?  I have given this a lot of thought and the best answer I can come up with is suckage.  Life is just full of suckage.

There are many sources of suckage.  Work is all about suckage.  Families have closets full of suckage.  Suckage is all around us.  But I think the biggest suckage indicators are the movies.  See, art is jam-packed with suckage.  Art=suckage.  Nowhere is this clearer than the difference between real life and the movies.

Women like romantic comedies.  You know, those formulaic social commentaries that feature perfectly dressed women with fabulous hair who would be models of stability were it not for their fucked up relationships with men so statuesque and beautiful that they must be CG.  These movies go perfect with a chilled chardonnay and a big ol’ box of chocolate-covered strawberries.  And a box of Kleenex.  And a few shots of insulin.

Men have their own dick flicks.  I don’t mean porn.  We will call porno “skin flicks.”  I mean movies where things get blown up and a lot of people get injured and killed.  Those are dick flicks.  Also high on the dick flick list are recent movies like Superbad and Forgetting Sarah Marshall, dude-buddy unromantic comedies so crammed with dick jokes that they make vaginas seem about as fashionable and sexy as bicycle helmets.

None of these types of films has anything in common with reality.  So, whether you like your movies with a tall glass of estrogen or testosterone, real life is comparatively jam-packed with suckage.  Women want romance and relationships free of turbulence and misunderstanding.  Men want to kill things, to fuck, and to talk about their dicks when they are not killing or fucking.  If life were perfect, every time I told a dick joke or blew my wad hundreds of people would be injured or die.  That must be what heaven is like.

I read this article the other day about how a couple of scientists in Hawaii think some other scientists are going to destroy the universe.  So, they are suing and have started a crappy website.

If this were a movie, the dudes out to destroy the universe would either have found a way to profit from the destruction of the universe or they would be completely mad.  I can’t think of many ways to make a lot of money destroying the universe all at once, even on eBay.  But if the dudes who want to destroy the universe are completely crazy mad scientists bent on annihilation of everything, what good would a lawsuit and a crappy website do?

This, my friends, is the difference between movies and the suckage that is real life.  Instead of sending some crack team of submachine-brandishing muscleheads out after these dudes who are about to destroy the universe, we file some papers with some goddamn court.  No superspies.  No superheroes.  No army of robots with retractable tentacles wielding heat-seeking buttplugs.

A few months ago on a Saturday night, I went out pussy hunting with one of my good friends.  We’ll call him Ralph.  Ralph is frequently my wingman on these excursions, but neither of us played a great game this night so we left with only phone numbers.  So, we’re walking down Second Avenue at about 3am and we are both a little drunk and I turn to Ralph and say, “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”  You know, like in Fight Club, one of my favorite movies of all time.  So, Ralph turns to me and says, “Really?”  He is smiling.  I can tell he is all into this.  He is already clenching his fists open and closed.

And I’m already starting to have second thoughts.  Ralph is taller than I am.  He weighs more than I do.  He wants to maim people as much as any other dude.  If you can’t fuck and you don’t have a handy dick joke or a detonator, punching someone’s lights out is as good as anything.  But I am brave.  I say, “Sure.”  He says, “Okay.”

So I stand there, waiting for him to punch me.  I think I probably looked very deer-in-the-headlights while waiting to be punched.  Ralph doesn’t care.  He reels back like he is pitching for the majors and swings at me.  But my eyes are open, so I see it coming and move out of the way.  Ralph is one step ahead of me, though, and comes at me with his left fist.  He nails me under my right eye and kind of smooshes my nose.  He hits me so hard that I fall backwards on my ass.

So now, I am sitting in my expensive game clothes on a sidewalk on Second Avenue at 3am on a Saturday in a puddle that is probably some homeless dude’s piss.  Ralph is laughing as he asks, “You okay?”  Then he says, “You’re bleeding.” 

My nose is bleeding and I have a gash under my right eye.  I feel like crying.  But I don’t cry.  I wipe away the shock and blood with my sleeve and get up and say something to Ralph like, “I’m fine, you fucking thug.”  I am pissed and Ralph gets worried that I am really mad at him and whines something like, “You told me to hit you as hard as I could.”  I pinch my nose back to stop the bleeding and say, “I know.  Now you’re supposed to tell me to do you.”  And Ralph says, “Are you fucking nuts?” 

Just then, our dysfunctional relationship is 1% dick flick and 99% romantic comedy.  I don’t feel liberated or manly or transformed.  I am bleeding, for Christ’s sake!  I feel beaten and disappointed, and Ralph feels guilty and sorry.

We shared a silent cab to our respective stoogepens.  My nose eventually stopped bleeding but my eye puffed up.  When I went to work on Monday, somebody asked me what happened and, being the wizard of deception I am, I told him it was a paper cut.  Then people called me “Paper Cut” at work for two months.

That’s what I’m talking about.  That is suckage.  The antidepressants we take dull our senses just enough so that we can’t see the vast divide between what our lives ought to be and what a pathetic pussy-assed world we actually live in.

And that’s just mainstream movies versus our lives.  The difference between real sex and porno is even more stark and depressing, but I will take that up some other time.  That won’t be pretty either so, if you need to refill that prescription, you should do it today.  You have been warned.

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Mister Shorts Number 3

Today the pope came to New York City.  All the streets around the stoogepen were blocked off to traffic because the pope was coming right past my place in his chick-magnet popemobile.  I live very close to a Catholic all-girls school that let the students out early for the pope’s visit.

I may see fit to write more about this some other time, but I am content to let Mister Shorts do the talking for now.

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